Monster: Tale Loch Ness Read Free Page A

House," Jerry Foster said as the limousine stopped in front of an old stone mansion overlooking the city. "I took particular care choosing it. In fact, I must have looked at half the vacant mansions in Inverness and even some that were occupied."
    "I don't think the effort was necessary," "Scotty" Bruce replied. "I would have been very comfortable in a sleeping bag."
    "It wasn't an effort. It was a pleasure, Mr. Bruce."
    "Mr. Bruce? Hey, if I'm going to call you Jerry, you're going to call me Scotty."
    Foster smiled broadly while patting down the lapels of an ostentatious plaid suit, unflatteringly styled. "All right, Scotty. But I've got to tell you the formality is part of idol worship. I lived in Los Angeles when you were at USC, and I was a real fan of yours."
    Scotty smirked; the memories were almost petrified. "That was a long time ago."
    Foster puffed his chest as they entered the grounds, proud of his good memory. "You were the best tight end I ever saw. There might be faster ballplayers today but no one who could block like you could."
    Scotty pulled off his Amarillo Stetson. "I hope you're the only football fan in Inverness 'cause I don't want anyone to remind me how old I am."
    Foster laughed, his moustache rising up his cheeks, his pudgy body and rotund face expanding. "Well, there are a lot of football fans, but football is soccer here. They're honkers about it."
    They entered the mansion. Foster led a tour: living room, dining room, kitchen—a housekeeper would be forthcoming—the upstairs bedroom area, and then the den, where they sat and attacked some beers pulled from the refrigerator.
    "I was also in Washington with the State Department when you were traded to the Redskins," Foster began again. "I didn't miss a game. In fact, if you ask me, Scotty, those years with Washington were your best."
    "My coldest, too."
    Foster lit his pipe, impressed with Scotty's appearance. Scotty did not look like the athlete long retired. He was muscular and slim, and his handsome, angular features, aggressive eyes, and inviting smile still carried a message of enthusiasm. "You may wish you were still there once you get a load of the Scottish winter. They say it's warmer than one would expect because of the Gulf Stream, but when those gales come raging in off the North Sea, no one takes much comfort with a few extra degrees of temp. The rain isn't God's gift, either. Oh, yeah, it snows, but the rain's the curse. Drops as big as golf balls and blown horizontally by the wind so they whiz around like artillery shells. It gets so bad you can hardly stand. Everyone winds up slushing around in the mud. It's worse than playing football on a rainy field, and you'd know about that 'cause of the torn knee!"
    Scotty slugged some beer, subconsciously flexing his scarred kneecap. He didn't like memories of the NFL, and he rarely indulged himself, but it was hard to prevent others from doing so. Notoriety always carried a ponderous curse even many years after the fact.
    Foster pulled some papers from his pocket, continuing to speak. "I've got a message for you from Jim Barrett."
    Scotty massaged his burnished cheeks. "I tried to get in to see Barrett in London, but he'd just been flown back to the States."
    Foster shook his head. "The man's fortunate to be alive. I tell you, Scotty, it was one scary night. We were lucky we had a doctor on the plane. Barrett was sitting right next to me when he started to complain about shortness of breath. I told him he'd eaten too much. But when he started to sweat, I knew he was in trouble. It wasn't ten seconds later, he turned blue, his eyes rolled into his head, and he went out like a light. I called for help. A doctor ran over, tore off Barrett's shirt, and went to work, pumping his chest. He said Barrett'd had a coronary and his heart was fibrillating. And he was trying to get it back in rhythm. Yeah, let me tell you, Scotty, Barrett's a lucky man to be alive."
    "How's his condition now?"
    "Not